From Russia, With Pain
by Fate8
Summary: Zangief, the Russian wrestler, joins the SF tournament to find a real challenge for his skills. Reviews always appreciated!
1. Default Chapter

The agent trudged through the knee-deep snow, shivering in the cold, despite the layers of winter clothing wrapped around his body. His guide, a local named Vassily Dombritch, urged him forward, saying their destination was not much further. He had been saying that for an hour, thought the agent bitterly.

Thomas Kleinstock sucked in a lung full of frigid Siberian air and plowed forward, wondering why he had been stupid enough to take this assignment in the first place. Not that he had much of a choice. He was one of the relatively few agents who were fluent in Russian, and as black luck would have it, lowest man on the totem pole. Thus, Mama Kleinstock's baby boy was freezing to death in the Siberian wastelands looking for a rumor of a myth.

Just when it seemed to the agent that the limit of human endurance had been reached, Vassily came trotting back, his grin showing a mouthful of stained teeth through a bushy beard. "It is there," he said, pointing to the crown of the hill above them. Kleinstock squinted his eyes, and could just make out the few structures that symbolized his goal. The thought of heat and possible refreshment made him practically sprint up the incline.

Kleinstock knocked on the door of what had to be the main residence. The whole place looked to be a worn down collective left over from the bad old Soviet days. An old man with a shock of unruly white hair and a tangled beard answered his pounding. "Hello sir," began Kleinstock. The old man said nothing, but stared hard at the agent. "Uh, I was told I could find a man called Zangief here." No hint of reaction came from the wrinkled face. "I have come with a proposition for him." The man's eyes betrayed nothing. Kleinstock was becoming frustrated and craned his neck to see past the old codger. "It's about a fighting tournament. One that will pit the best fighters from around the world against one another to crown the ultimate street-fighting champion." After what seemed to be thoughtful consideration, the old man stepped aside and beckoned Kleinstock to follow him. They moved to the back of the house, where the old man pointed to a window. Kleinstock looked out to a scene out of some Hollywood writer's fever dream.

The most massive and muscled human being the agent had ever laid eyes upon stood bare-chested in the Siberian snow. He circled a huge furry animal, which raised itself onto two legs and bellowed a deadly challenge. Kleinstock turned toward the old man. "Is that a bear?" he asked incredulously. The ancient Cossack cracked a gap-toothed smile and pointed again.

"Zangief," he said.

Kleinstock watched as the Russian giant deftly eluded a paw swipe to his midsection, then darted in behind the beast to lock in a half-nelson chokehold. Kleinstock was flabbergasted that a man so large could be so quick. The bear hit the ground and rolled, trying to fling the man off his back, but Zangief held on, steadily applying more pressure until the bear went limp on the ground. The Russian stood and let loose a shout of victory. He leapt over the high fence and strode toward the house, picking up a mammoth fur-lined shirt on his way.

Zangief entered the dwelling, shaking stray snowflakes from his brows. His bulk filled the entire doorway. He immediately spotted Kleinstock. "We have a visitor, Dimitri," he stated. Zangief's voice was a low rumble that sounded like the beginning of a rock avalanche. His head nearly brushed the ceiling of the little house. Kleinstock had to admit the Russian was intimidating.

"Mr., uh, Zangief," he began, "I represent an international organization that is interested in showcasing the world's top martial artists in a grand tournament." Zangief settled into a reinforced chair as the old man brought him a steaming mug and a platter heaped with food..

"What is your name, little man?" asked Zangief.

"Thomas Kleinstock."

"And what organization is making this happen?"

"Ultimate Street Fighting Champion." It was a lie. USFC was indeed the cover sponsor, but Kleinstock would have rather cut out his own tongue than reveal the true benefactor of the tournament.

"Never heard of it," replied Zangief.

"I assure you, sir, USFC may be fairly new, but it does have the highest degree of private backing, and the clout to pull off a tournament worthy of your talents." Kleinstock launched into the details of the competition until Zangief held up a hand large enough to palm the agent's entire head.

"Tell me about the prizes."

"Compensation for fighters would vary, but I can tell you that in the later rounds,a seven figure deal per fight would not be out of the question. Any fighter who reaches the finals will get the reward of a lifetime." He had some idea that final reward might be a six-foot plot of ground somewhere in Thailand. Or in the Russian's case, a seven-foot plot.

"There will be no restrictions on styles or moves?"

"None. We believe warriors should be allowed to fight to the best of their ability. In fact, there is a real danger of serious injury or death. You have to sign a waiver." Zangief's eyes lit up.

"No sporting body would sanction this type of competition."

"Which is exactly why we are providing a format for the world's greatest fighters. People want to see the best of the best try each other one-on-one. I am also authorized to guarantee you at least two home bouts." Zangief rose to his feet and stared out one of the windows.

"I am tired of wrestling bears," he whispered. The man-mountain whirled toward Kleinstock, who recoiled in surprise. "Can you promise me that there will be real challenges in this tournament of yours?"

"Absolutely," replied Kleinstock.

"I will sign your papers."

After the details had been hammered out, the agent rose to leave. "Details about your first match will be sent here," he said. "Transportation and quarters will be arranged. Be prepared to leave within a month." The Russian nodded his head absently, his mind already turned toward the upcoming battles.

Four weeks later, Zangief and a hand-picked training team boarded a private plane bound for Japan. Clutched in one huge hand was the name and profile of the Russian monster's first opponent. E. Honda was a sumo wrestler of great fame and renown. He was exalted as the greatest sumo of the century. Zangief looked forward to their meeting.

Three very long days later, Zangief moved through a cheering throng of Japanese. He towered above them all. The place the fight was to be held in was a nondescript warehouse in the center of the city. Reaching the makeshift ring, the Russian entered and stared across at Honda, who had arrived before him. The face of the sumo showed no emotion. The referee beckoned both combatants and their respective translators to the middle of the ring. Zangief did not hear the words of the official. They were irrelevant. He was searching Honda for a psychological weakness. He did not find one. The sumo was confident. When the fighters were released to their corners, the gathered fans began to jeer the big Russian.

"The crowd doesn't seem to care much for you," said his old friend Dimitri, leaning in close to be heard.

"They just want a good show," replied Zangief, "And a win for their hero. I will be happy to disappoint them on the second count."

"Yes. But do not disappoint the others that are watching." Dimitri pointed to a skybox with darkened glass that looked down upon the ring.

"Who?"

"I don't know. Someone who wants to see, but be seen. You have other things to worry about at the moment."

"Da." Zangief stripped off his shirt, and for a moment, the crowd went still. Countless eyes crawled over the hyped musculature and the scars that criss-crossed the wrestler's body. Honda removed his ceremonial robe and the masses roared once more. The Russian flexed once before the official screamed for the match to begin.

Zangief moved toward the center of the ring, expecting Honda to charge across in classic sumo style. The Japanese surprised him by not doing so. Honda began a slow circling, trying to flank the Russian. Zangief moved to counter, cutting down Honda's maneuver space. Suddenly, his opponent dropped into a sumo crouch, then crashed across the ring. A brief grin flitted across the Russian's face as he surged forward to meet Honda. The clash of the behemoths shook the walls of the structure.

Both men grappled with one another to find a hold. Honda was heavier than the Russian, but Zangief soon proved he was stronger. He slowly forced the sumo's grip away from his own body, and was on the verge of trapping Honda's arms, when the Japanese lunged upward. The top of his head smashed into the Russian's nose. Zangief grunted in pain as cartilage crunched and blood sprayed across his face. Honda used the moment of shock to break away. The crowd thundered at the sight of the Russian's blood.

Zangief swiped at his face, conceding first blood to the Japanese with a slight nod of his head. His nose had been broken before, and no doubt would be again. The fighters moved toward each other, still measuring a largely unknown opponent. Honda swept forward, using hard hand slaps to try and batter the Russian's face. Zangief hunched down, covered up, and waited for the storm to pass, taking the blows on his shoulders and arms. He saw Honda's attack slow slightly, and took advantage of the opening, stepping forward to deliver a hard chop to Honda's chest. The sumo straightened and came back with a chop of his own. Zangief's skin reddened, but he hardly felt the blow through a solid wall of pectoral muscle. Honda went low, squatting to try and grasp an ankle that would tumble the Russian to the floor. Zangief lifted his leg, avoiding the move, and lashed out with a boot, catching the sumo on the side of the head. Honda staggered back. A hard jab caught him above the eye, rocking the Japanese fighter again. Honda roared and sprang forward, coming in low. Zangief jumped up and planted both feet squarely in the middle of the sumo's chest. Honda sprawled in the dust, and the crowd fell silent in disbelief at seeing such a huge man react so quickly. The Japanese shot back up, already growing desperate. He ran forward trying to end the contest with a bull rush. Zangief met him again in the center of the ring, as the two strained for an advantage. Honda tried for a sumo slam, but the Russian had prepared for the move. He locked the sumo in an arm bar, and then let him jerk out of it. The Japanese took the ruse, and in his moment of pure reaction, Zangief struck. He spun around, gripped Honda around his considerable girth, and executed a flawless belly-to-back suplex. The crowd gasped, and Honda lay stunned on the ground again. Zangief reached down to drag him back up when the bell rang, ending the first round. A flicker of annoyance passed over the Russian's face as he headed toward his corner. Once there, he sat heavily, staring at Honda, who slowly regained his feet and moved unsteadily toward his own corner. Honda also sat, a small trickle of blood falling down his face. The two warriors stared each other down. A trainer tried to attend to Zangief's busted nose, but was brushed away by the Russian's paw.

"A good finish to the round," said Dimitri, "but you should never have gotten tagged with that headbutt." Zangief snorted.

"He is in over his head, and now he knows it. His will is broken. I will finish him in this round." The bell rang again, and Zangief came to his feet, eager to end the match. He marched across the ring, daring Honda to stop him, threats of violence flashing in his eyes. The sumo attempted an awkward mid-level roundhouse kick. The Russian easily swatted it away, and went for a collar-and-elbow tie up. Honda slipped the hold, and grabbed Zangief around the torso, attempting to gain leverage for a takedown. The wrestler responded with a double-axe handle blow between the shoulder blades. The force of the attack buckled Honda's knees. Zangief followed with a viscous knee to the solar plexus, and heard a rush of air leave the sumo's lungs. Zangief saw the opportunity to end the bout. He shoved Honda's head down and clamped it between his powerful thighs. The Russian bent over and grasped the Japanese around the middle. Using incredible strength, Zangief levered up the bulky Japanese warrior. When he had lifted him to the proper angle, the Russian bunched his legs and jumped up and back, folding his body in the air, so Honda's head was hanging below the wrestler's body. The textbook piledriver shook the rafters, as all of Honda's considerable weight came crashing down on his neck and skull.

Zangief sat for a brief moment, then pushed Honda's unconscious body off of him. The Russian stood as the official came over to check on the fallen sumo. The referee did a quick check, then waved a medical team into the ring. As they swarmed around Honda, the official turned toward Zangief. The Russian's hand was raised in victory. The fans, silent since Honda's demise, erupted into cheers. Zangief answered with a loud shout of triumph. He walked back to his dressing room amid scores of hands reaching out to touch him.

Some hours later, Dimitri entered Zangief's hotel room with a sheepish smile on his face. Two small-framed Japanese women slithered out of the large-framed bed, and ran giggling toward the steamy bathroom. Zangief sat up, sheets pooling around his waist.

"I hope I am not disturbing the great warrior and his victory celebration," said Dimitri with a smirk. Zangief ignored his mocking tone.

"A few more minutes and you might have," he answered. "What news, old friend?"

"Pack some sunglasses and ugly shirts for the next trip," said Dimitri, showing his gap-toothed grin. He held up a packet of plane tickets. "We're going to America."


	2. America

The flight attendant eyed the huge man sprawled across two reclined first class seats. Most of the passengers she encountered on a chartered private plane wore expensive suits carried either a briefcase or a laptop computer. This one wore khaki pants and a sleeveless shirt. All he had brought on board with him was a Russian-English dictionary, and an appetite. The man had polished off five airline dinners since they had been in the air. The attendant's gaze lingered over the exposed bulging arms of the behemoth, one of which was larger than both of her thighs together.

Zangief cracked open one eye. He was used to people staring at him. "Yes? Is something happening?" he asked in Russian. The woman blushed slightly at being caught.

"We are beginning our landing approach, sir," she replied. "You will want to put on your seatbelt and prepare for the end of the flight." A native of Moscow, the flight attendant had been hand-picked for this job. Zangief nodded, then stretched and yawned as the rest of the Russians on board were woken.

After disembarking from the plane, the Russian team was met by Thomas Kleinstock inside the terminal. "Good day gentlemen," he said with a note of cheer. "I have been appointed as your tournament liaison. I have taken the liberty of arranging for transportation to your hotel." He smiled broadly. "If you'll follow me." Zangief shrugged and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. He tailed Kleinstock through the airport, the crowd parting before the massive wrestler. It was something else he had become used to over the years.

Kleinstock led them outside to a pair of waiting limousines. The Russians arrived as the last of their luggage was being packed into the cars. Kleinstock hopped into a front passenger seat. Zangief crammed his bulk into the backseat, alongside his old trainer, Dimitri. When everyone was seated, the vehicles rolled away and down the street.

Cruising through the winding boulevards of the city, Dimitri stared wide-eyed at the multitude of shops, stores and high rise buildings, along with the throngs of people.

"America is a decadent place," he said, a note of wonder betraying his words. Zangief chuckled, a low deep rumble in his chest.

"Dimitri, you sound like on of the old commissars," he said. The old man shot him a sheepish look.

"Well, look at this place, Zangief," he said. "Did you ever dream of anything like this?"

The Russian shook his massive head, which brushed the car's ceiling. "No. I never imagined anything like this."

Kleinstock turned around in his seat. "Gentlemen , you will be staying at a five-star hotel until the fight, the exact time and place of which has yet to be determined. In the meantime, you will be provided with a training facility that will be placed at your disposal." He prattled on about food service and things to do and see, but Zangief tuned him out. He was not concerned with these petty details. Only the fight mattered.

Eventually, they reached the hotel. Kleinstock took them inside and got everyone checked in and situated. Zangief wandered around the opulent surroundings with a look of awe on his face. He was intimately familiar with brutal Siberian winters and a spartan training regimen. He felt awkwardly out of place in the midst of this modern metropolis.

Later in the afternoon, Zangief was testing out his extra large king-sized bed. He did this by laying down on it. It was almost big enough, and it did not break. He took that as a good sign. The wrestler's eyes had just closed when a knock sounded on his door. A beat later, Dimitri entered the room.

"I was almost asleep," growled Zangief.

"Sleep later," replied Dimitri. He held up a videotape. "We have work to do."

"What is that?"

"Kleinstock gave it to me. It seems every fighter gets a tape of their opponent's last fight." He walked over to the television set. "Let us see what we've gotten ourselves into."

"Dimitri, do you even know how to use that machine?" asked Zangief as his trainer poked about the VCR.

"Of course I do," snapped Dimitri. "I'm old, not stupid." Zangief raised a bushy eyebrow. "Alright," Dimitri admitted, "Kleinstock showed me how to use it."

The tape began and the first image was of a blond American dressed in a red martial arts uniform. "A pretty boy," murmured Dimitri. The name 'Ken Masters' flashed onto the screen, followed by a wide shot of a makeshift ring surrounded by screaming fans. After a brief introduction, the battle began. The Russians watched every move, every nuance. "Impressive," said Dimitri. "Shotokan, I believe."

Suddenly, Zangiewf lunged for the remote control. He mashed the pause button. "Dimitri, what the hell was that?"

The old man gazed at the screen for a long moment. "I have heard of Eastern martial arts disciples," he said, "who are able to gather their 'chi', their life force, and propel it forward. Like a ranged weapon."

"I can't do that," said an appalled Zangief.

"I know. Settle down. Play the tape again." They watched Ken unleash the fireball again and again. "You see," said Dimitri, pointing at the screen, "He must gather the energy before throwing it. That pause will give you an opening." Dimitri smiled. "Or simply dodge. Or cover up." He waved his hand at the image of Ken performing the improbable move. "This is not insurmountable."

Zangief relaxed. "I suppose not," he said. On the tape, Ken launched a spinning hurricane kick. "Neat trick," said Zangief, never taking his eyes off the television. The match ended when Ken blasted his opponent with a spectacular finish.

"The Dragon Punch," said Dimitri. "A very advanced technique." He glanced sideways at Zangief. "Don't get hit by that." The big Russian didn't answer.

The next day after breakfast, Kleinstock escorted the Russian team to their designated training gym. It was a small one-story cinderblock building called Greg's House of Pain. It smelled of old sweat and hard work. Zangief liked it at once. The lighting was low, except in the middle of the four-square ring which dominated the center of the gym. Racks of equipment lined each wall, from iron weights to heavy bags. A dozen fighters stopped whatever they were doing when the Russians entered through the front door.

A small man rushed over and introduced himself as Grigor Mashilev, the owner of Greg's House of Pain. He welcomed the team to his humble establishment, and bade them to use it as they saw fit.

Zangief glanced over the assembled fighters. "I think a display of force is in order," he said, "to establish the proper hierarchy of this place."

The call went out that the big Russian would be taking on all comers in twenty minutes. Anyone who could beat him would earn five thousand dollars. Zangief retired to a dressing room to change and go through his warm-up routine. In the mean time, more people began to gather at Greg's House of Pain as word of the reward began to spread out onto the streets.

When the allotted time was up, Zangief emerged from the locker room and stalked to the ring. One look at his face, was enough to move people out of his path. He climbed into the combat arena, swinging his legs over the top rope. The Russian looked over his first challenger, a muscular man with several tattoos and a drooping mustache. The bell rang to start the bout, and the man charged across the ring in a wild rush. Zangief calmly reached out and grasped the man by the throat with one massive hand. The move stopped him dead in his tracks, and he began to paw at the Russian's arm. Zangief squeezed. As his opponent began to choke, the wrestler hoisted him up into the air by his neck. With his arm fully extended, Zangief held the man up for half a minute, then slammed him to the mat with all of his brute strength. He did not get up again.

The next fighter was a boxer. Zangief met him in the center of the ring, and let throw a flurry of punches. The Russian swatted them away, slipped past the boxer's guard, and executed a devastating reverse neck-breaker.

One after another, each man who entered against Zangief was carried out. Suplex's, DDT's, back breakers, pile drivers and slams of every description dispatched everyone who crossed the threshold. Zangief had barely broken a sweat by the time the competition was ended.

A week later, Kleinstock knocked on Zangief's hotel room door. The Russian answered with a mighty yawn.

"Good morning, Mr. Zangief," began the agent. "I have good news for you today." The Russian waited in silence, leaning against the doorframe. "Right," continued Kleinstock. "The street fight is scheduled for tomorrow at one o'clock." He smiled expectantly.

"It's about time," said Zangief, then he closed the door in Kleinstock's face. The befuddled agent contemplated the closed door for a moment then walked away.

As the time to fight drew close, Zangief and his team were taken to the site by another pair of limousines. The Russian wrestler sat in the back of one car, already dressed to fight. The vehicles drove down a dead-end street, and came to a stop outside of an abandoned cul-de-sac.

"We're going to fight out in the open?" asked Zangief.

"Apparently so," replied Dimitri. "What does it matter?" Zangief shrugged in answer.

The Russians exited to a cheering mob that surrounded the outlined area. Zangief bulled his way through the fans. He found Ken Masters already there, arms crossed, tapping his foot. Both fighters came forward for the introduction. The announcer droned on, while Zangief and Ken measured one another.

"You're a big one," said Ken. "You came along way, Ivan, just to get your butt kicked." Zangief sneered.

"What did he say?" asked Dimitri when Zangief returned to his corner.

"I don't know," replied the werestler. "But I think he called me Ivan."

"Who's Ivan?"

"I don't know." Zangief had time to flex once and roll his neck before the bell rang for the first round of the fight.

Both fighters warily advanced toward each other in a guarded position. While Zangief watched, Ken launched himself into the air, twisted into a high somersault and lashed out with a kick to the Russian's head. Zangief blocked it with his arm and shoulder, but the Shotokan master tried for a leg sweep as soon as his feet hit the ground. Zangief had to leap backwards to avoid ending up on his back. He stood his ground to lure Ken in closer, and when he moved within range, Zangief moved to grab him. Ken ducked and slipped off to the side, then came around with a hard punch to the wrestler's ribs. The blow had little impact on Zangief, except to startle him. The American was quick.

Ken avoided a backhand chop, then delivered a stinging kick to Zangief's thigh. The Russian narrowed his eyes as Ken danced back out of range. The red-clad karateka took a deep breath and brought both hands in close to his right side. Zangief saw this, and sprinted toward him. Ken gathered his chi energy and focused it on the charging wrestler. He let it go with a scream as Zangief closed with him. The Russian saw it coming and dodged to the side at the last possible moment. Before Ken could recover, Zangief reached out and snatched him by his uniform. Dragging him in close, Zangief brought his heavy forehead down on top of Ken's nose. The headbutt busted Ken's nose and filled his eyes with tears. Acting on instinct, he threw two hard punches into Zangief's midsection, and backed him off with a high kick to the upper chest.

Ken shook his head to clear it of the pain, then blocked a lariat blow from a crushing forearm. Zangief swung through the block and spun. Ken was caught by surprise by the spinning lariat, and an arm as big a tree trunk smacked into his head, making his head spin and leaving him open for another blow. He sprawled into the street, rolled and barely avoided Zangief's boot as it crashed down next to his head. He kicked out at Zangief's ankle and it caused the Russian to back up.

The wrestler closed again, as Ken got to his feet. Gathering himself, he struck out with a powerful sidekick. Zangief knocked it aside and swept Ken up in a bear hug. He squeezed with all his might as he buried his face into Ken's chest to avoid any hits to his face. Ken felt the pressure on his ribs, and hammered on the back of Zangief's neck. The Russian dropped him, and fighting back the darkness, Ken whirled into a roundhouse kick that found its mark, alongside the wrestler's thick skull. Zangief rolled with the blow, but blood trickled out of his mouth. Both fighters were regrouping when the bell rang, ending the first round.

Zangief made his way back to his corner, but refused to sit down, instead he stared holes through Ken across the ring. Dimitri gave him a small drink of water.

"Are you finished playing around yet?"

"He is fast," said Zangief.

"So, take away his advantage."

The bell rang to begin the next round, and Zangief surged forward. Ken feinted with a low kick then jumped up and landed a hard right hand to Zangief's face. The hit rocked the Russian backward. Enraged, Zangief caught Ken halfway through another roundhouse attempt, and clubbed him across the upper back with a forearm. It slowed Ken enough for Zangief to pick him up over his head and dash him to the ground. Ken's shoulder took the brunt of the shock, and he felt a tidal wave of pain tear through his body. Zangief bent down and picked him up off the pavement. Ken hit him across the face with a spinning backfist, but did not have the leverage to put his full power into it. Zangief howled and grabbed Ken by the waist with both hands. Raising him up toward the sky, the Russian power bombed Ken to the ground. The red garbed warrior went limp on impact. Zangief reached down and picked him up by the throat. He cocked a fist, but Ken was unconscious. Zangief let him go, and watched as Ken crumpled to the ground.

A medical team rushed in as Zangief was declared the winner. His team mobbed him as he made his way to his corner. The thrill of victory surged through the Russian, and he screamed in triumph.

The next day, Zangief was looking at his face in the bathroom mirror. He was examining an ugly black eye, which threatened to look worse before it got better.

Dimitri stuck his head inside. "You appear none the worse for wear," he said.

"It will heal in time," said Zangief. "You have seen Kleinstock?"

"Yes. A very odd man that one."

"What did he say?"

"He said congratulations on your victory, and we are leaving in two days."

"Where are we going this time?"

"Back to Mother Russia, my friend. Our next fight is at home." Zangief smiled despite the pain in his face. It would be good to go home again.


	3. Chun Li

"It's not exactly home," said Zangief, "but it's close." He surveyed the rented house that would be home until the next street fight. "It is good to be back in Russia, eh Dimitri?"

"Yes," said the old Cosssack as he set down his bags. "But I wish we could have gone back to Siberia instead of this soot- stained city."

"Ah, you complain too much." Zangief flopped down onto a worn couch. The tired springs creaked ominously under his weight. His eyes caught the VCR/television combination tucked away in one corner of the bland living room. "When is Kleinstock bringing the tape?"

"Shortly, I would imagine," replied Dimitri. "In the meantime, let us see if our generous hosts left us any food." The two were in the midst of preparing a thick cabbage and borscht stew when Kleinstock knocked politely on the front door.

"Come in, my friend," bellowed Zangief.

Kleinstock stepped inside the small frame house. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else could it be?" asked the Russian. "Join us for a bowl of stew while we watch the tape."

Kleinstock sniffed at the strong odor emanating form the kitchen. Dimitri ladled vegetables and meat into a very large bowl. Kleinstock blanched. Russian cuisine was not his favorite. "I'll have to pass, Zangief," he said. "I have other pressing business to attend to today."

"You brought the tape?" asked Dimitri.

"Yes, yes," replied the agent. Kleinstock pulled the video out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Dimitri. "No details of the fight have been set, but everything should be finalized within a matter of days."

"We'll be ready," said Zangief.

"Training facilities have again been provided for your use," continued Kleinstock." Is there anything else you need at the moment?"

"Just a spoon," said Zangief as he headed back into the kitchen.

"Okay," said Kleinstock. "I'll see you in a few days." The agent eased out the door and quickly made his way to the waiting car parked on the street. The darkened windows betrayed nothing as he slipped inside the vehicle. A tall figure regarded him with one eye.

"The Russian has surprised us," said the man. "We did not think he would escape the second round. Many people lost large sums of money when he defeated Ken. Including me."

"Yes, Master Sagat," replied Kleinstock. "The Russian is formidable. There is a good chance he will advance past this round as well."

"Perhaps," mused the scarred Muy Thai warrior, "but I highly doubt he will be worthy to face me." The car pulled away and sped down the street.

Zangief and Dimitri, each with a bowl of stew, sat down on the couch to watch the video of their next opponent. The opening began with the words "Chun Li". Dimitri slurped down a spoonful of food. "Another Asian," he said. The camera closed in on a young lithe Chinese woman doing kung fu warm-up exercises in front of a cheering crowd.

"She's just a girl," exclaimed Zangief.

"Yes," said Dimitri, "And one that reached the third round of this tournament, presumably by beating her first two opponents. Now hush, and watch."

The Russians watched in amazement as Chun Li jumped, flipped and used speed coupled with precision attacks to defeat her bigger, stronger adversary.

"She moves almost like an acrobat," said Zangief.

"You will have to catch her," said Dimitri. "Watch out for those lightning kicks." Zangief did not reply. His meal lay forgotten at his side and his brows were furrowed in thought.

Zangief spent the following days pumping iron, practicing holds and watching Chun Li's video.

At last, Kleinstock darkened the front door again. "The fight will be held tomorrow," he said. "A car will pick everyone up at noon." He offered a weak smile. "Good luck."

"Luck is always a good thing to have," said Zangief who wandered away as Kleinstock took his leave.

The new day found Zangief to be restless, more so than usual before a match. "What is wrong?" asked Dimitri.

"I don't know," said Zangief. "I am uneasy about this fight. I am not used to battling women."

Dimitri walked up close and thumped Zangief on the chest. "Get that thought out of your head right now," he said. "You may rest assured that she has no qualms about knocking you on your ass. In fact, she is likely salivating over the opportunity to flatten a big man like yourself." Zangief nodded at the wisdom of his friend, but he continued to pace and wait for his ride.

Precisely and twelve o' clock, the transportation arrived. The Russians piled in and rode, with Zangief fidgeting next to Dimitri in the backseat of the largest car.

After a short ride, they pulled up beside a large abandoned Soviet-era factory. The monstrous rust-stained walls stood out in stark contrast to the cleared wasteland that surrounded the former manufacturing plant. "I wonder what they made here," said Dimitri as he walked toward the entrance.

"Whatever it was, they haven't made any for a long time," replied Zangief. "It is the perfect arena for a fight."

Ahead of them, Kleinstock directed the Russians down a broad, dimly lit corridor. "Zangief," said the liaison, "You only have fifteen minutes before the fight. Prepare yourself." As he left, the Russians could hear the faint sounds of a large crowd reverberate through the massive metal walls of the factory.

The minutes ticked slowly by, and the Russians emerged from their sparse dressing room and made for the main floor. As they drew closer, the crowd noise grew louder, and adrenaline began to burn through Zangief's veins. He burst through the final set of doors to be greeted by a roaring crowd of his countrymen. Zangief paused to look around when the mass of people began to chant his name. He pushed his way to the ring, and gave a great victory cry. The crowd returned a thunderous response.

Chun Li had not yet arrived, and Zangief almost missed her when she first appeared. She stood nearly a foot and a half shorter than the wrestler, and Zangief thought a stiff breeze might blow her away. They stared at each other for a moment, the walked toward the center of the ring.

The Russian looked down, and Chun Li said something in Chinese. Zangief could not understand the words, but the tone spoke volumes. The fighters listed the pre-fight spiel from the officials, then returned to their respective corners to wait for the opening bell. It rang, and the crowd grew quiet, waiting for the action to begin.

Zangief advanced toward Chun Li, intending to cut off her avenues of movement. She surprised him by leaping up into the air, with her feet clearing the Russian's head. Her booted foot came down on his left shoulder, and the heel bit deep into the tissue. Zangief whirled around, with every intention of grabbing the woman out of the air and slamming her to the ground. He was startled when he found he could not move his left arm. It was numb from the shoulder down. Chun Li landed and lashed out with a back kick into Zangief's thigh. The Russian was knocked back a step, more concerned with his useless arm than the hit to the leg.

Chun Li pressed the attack, ducking under a back-handed chop and punching hard into Zangief's inner thigh. A grimace passed across the wrestler's face, and he reached down to grab Chun Li, but she danced out of range. The Chinese kung fu artist assumed a Tiger-Crane stance. Using one outstretched hand, she motioned Zangief to come forward. The Russian felt some feeling return to his arm, and grimly marched forward. He expected Chun Li to attack either his arm or continue to pound on his leg.

She tried for a roundhouse kick to his knee. The Russian grabbed her ankle and wrenched her to the ground. He bent forward to grab her, and she responded with a sharp kick that split Zangief's bottom lip and rocked his head back. Chun Li scrambled back and regained her feet.

Zangief wiped blood off of his face, and felt a red, raw rage descend over him. This woman was not going to pick him apart and win the fight on points. He was certain she did not have the power to knock him out. Reasonably sure anyway. Zangief came straight at her, and Chun Li could see the fury burning in his eyes. The Russian looked like a mountain about to crash down upon her.

Chun Li leaped straight up meaning to come down on Zangief's head, but this time he was ready for the maneuver. He swerved to the side and plucked the smaller woman out of the air with his now serviceable left hand. Zangief twisted Chun Li around and flung her to the earth. She landed hard on her stomach, and the air left her lungs in a loud whoosh.

Zangief stepped over and placed a boot in the middle of her back, pressing down with his weight. Unable to move, Chun Li was helpless when Zangief grabbed one of her wrists with each hand and yanked back with brutal force, lifting her upper body off the floor, while the Russian's boot kept her lower body on the floor. It was a submission move designed to put enormous pressure on the shoulders, spine and pectorals. As Zangief leaned further back, Chun Li thought her arms would pop out of the socket. She was ready to scream when the bell rang, ending the first round.

Zangief dropped the girl and headed back to his corner. Dimitri was waiting for him. The wrestler sank onto a waiting stool.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" asked Dimitri as he wiped blood off of Zangief's face.

"She is fast," said the big Russian, "but she does not have the raw power to defeat me. I already took her strongest shots." Across the ring, Chun Li was slowly rotating her arms, trying to work out the kinks before the second round.

"Huh. I hope so. Still, I would feel better if you would end this quickly."

"It will be done, old friend.," said Zangief. "If I can only get my hands on her." A small, humorless smile tugged at his bloody lips as the bell rang.

The two combatants met in the center of the ring. Zangief lunged forward to grapple with the girl, but Chun Li had other ideas. She ducked inside his reach, rose up snake-quick, and hit the Russian five times in the torso. Zangief barely felt the light blows, and Chun Li rolled away from him. He started after her, took two steps and dropped to one knee, unable to catch his breath.

Blood rushed to his head, and he could barely hear Dimitri shouting something at him from the corner. Zangief turned to see Chun Li running at him from across the ring. She launched herself into the air and kicked the Russian full in the face. The impact knocked Zangief back, and he had to catch himself with one hand to keep from sprawling on the floor. He shook his head to try and clear it Chun Li appeared behind him and slammed the heel of her palm into the back of Zangief's neck.

The thick layers of muscle warded off the paralyzing blow. Zangief reached back and grabbed the woman. He used a snap mare to toss her over his shoulder. Chun Li landed on her back with a thud, then darted out of the way as Zangief's massive fist crashed down next to her head. His diaphragm began to work again, and the Russian drew in a shuddering lung full of air.

Chun Li rolled and began to rise, when Zangief tackled her from behind, pinning the smaller warrior to the ground. He swiftly palmed her head, then bounced it off the floor. While Chun Li was stunned, Zangief wrapped his arm around her neck in a chokehold and pulled her up. Chun Li's feet dangled off the ground as she struggled to breathe. The wrestler reached down between her legs, and at the same time released the choke. He switched his grip, placing his hand on her neck. With a speed that belied his size, Zangief turned Chun Li perpendicular to the ground. For a frozen moment, the Chinese woman was suspended in mid-air, held only by two massive arms.

Zangief lunged forward, and brought Chun Li crashing down onto his knee. The back breaker nearly snapped her in half, and this time she did scream. Nearly blinded by the pain traveling down her spine, Chun Li crawled toward her corner. Zangief stood, took two steps forward, reached down and grasped Chun Li by the throat. He lifted her up, ignoring the hands that scrabbled at his forearm. He placed her head under one arm, and holding her legs out with the other, fell back hard, slamming Chun Li's forehead into the ground. The DDT knocked Chun Li into oblivion.

Zangief sprang to his feet, looked at the fallen Chinese and howled in victory. The raucous crowd became so loud, Zangief could not hear the official announcement of his win.

As he left he ring, medical personnel joined Chun Li's trainers where she lay. Zangief's own team tried to create a path back to the dressing room, but the big Russian was mobbed by fans. His face hurt, but he took the time to touch as many people as possible as he could. Extra security rushed in to allow Zangief to pass through the joyous throng.

Following a brief visit by a physician to check him out, Zangief and his team left for their temporary homes. Once there, he lay on the king-sized bed, with an ice pack pressed to his head.

"That's going to leave a bruise," said Dimitri. He tossed a bottle of aspirin toward Zangief. "For your injuries, oh king of fighters."

"Shut up," said Zangief, but he chewed a handful of the medicine anyway. "I wasn't ready for her full range of attacks."

"Da. And I can only guess the fights will get tougher from here."

"Good," said Zangief with a trace of sarcasm, "I would hate to think my toughest challenge was a tiny Chinese woman."

Zangief was asleep when Kleinstock arrived with a new set of travel orders. Dimitri met him at the door.

"Don't you ever rest, Dimitri?" asked Kleinstock.

"I am old. I will sleep enough when I die."

"Right," said Kleinstock. How morbid, he thought, but accurate. "Here are the tickets and arrangements for the next round."

"Thank you."

"I'll return to make sure you get off on schedule. Good bye Dimitri." Kleinstock turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

Dimitri opened the package and looked inside. "Brazil," he said. "How interesting."


	4. Brazil

The next morning, Zangief arose early to begin training for his next fight. He slipped on a custom made jogging suit and a pair of size 19 extra wide running shoes. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and the air held the promise of a cold day. Zangief's breath was visible the moment he eased outside. He blew hard to form a small cloud on condensation around his head. Looking out into the street which ran in front of the house, the Russian was surprised to see a small figure standing in the road. He cocked his head in wonder, then walked forward, his long stride eating up the space afforded by the small lawn. The diminutive form turned out to be a girl, about eight years old, guessed Zangief. She stared up at him as he approached, all wide eyed, and looking ready to bolt at the slightest opportunity. The girl clutched something in her gloved hands. Zangief knelt down in front of her, being careful not to spook the child.

"Hello, little one," said the mammoth wrestler in as gentle a voice as he could manage. "What are you doing here, standing alone in the cold?" The girl did not reply. She thrust the paper she had been holding at Zangief, who took it into his own immense hands. "Is this for me?" he asked. As before there was no answer, the girl simply turned and fled down the street. Zangief stood and watched until she was out of sight. Only then did he look at what the girl had given him. The thick paper was folded in half, and when Zangief opened it, he saw a crudely drawn picture. He stared at it for a moment, then gazed back down the road where the girl had gone. His brow creased in thought, the Russian turned and walked back to the small house.

Inside, Zangief ran into Dimitri, whose white hair shrouded his head like a puffy cloud. The old Cossack yawned and scratched his ribs. "What are you doing back so soon?" he asked. "Surely, you have not finished your roadwork already?"

"No," said Zangief. "I went outside, and there was a little girl standing there, watching. She gave me this." He handed the picture to Dimitri. The old man looked at it and saw a colored depiction of what must have been Zangief, holding the Russian national flag in a victory pose, with a very vague and beaten opponent lying at his feet. The words scrawled across the bottom of the drawing read, "To Zangief, hero of the Motherland. Fight and win."

Dimitri burst out laughing. "What is so wrong with this?" he asked. "You have developed a fan club." He shrugged. "You are a champion, it is only natural for this to happen."

Zangief scowled. "I am no hero, Dimitri."

"To these people, you are," replied his mentor, rattling the drawing at Zangief. "Russians are a proud people, as you well know, but is has been a long while since they have had much to be proud of. You give them something to cheer for. Again, it is no bad thing to have the love and respect of your countrymen."

"Bah," snorted Zangief. "I am a fighter, nothing more." He turned and stalked back out the front door.

"You are wrong, my friend," whispered Dimitri.

Two days later, Kleinstock arrived at the house. He found the Russians all packed up and ready to go. Zangief and Dimitri were traveling light, as usual, carrying only one bag each. "Good morning, gentlemen," said Kleinstock with a cheery smile. "All ready for your tropical vacation?"

"No," said Dimitri. "Why should I want to go to a place and sit under the sun to sweat? They probably don't even make a decent sausage there."

"Are all Russians this dour?" Kleinstock asked quietly to himself.

"No," said Zangief. He nodded at Dimitri. "Only this one. I am looking forward to visiting Brazil."

"It has only been three days since out last bout," said Dimitri. "Why are we leaving so soon?"

"We want to be fair," replied Kleinstock. "A few extra days in Brazil before the fight will help Zangief acclimate himself to the tropics."

"Da," conceded Dimitri. "That makes sense."

"Excellent," said Kleinstock. "So, let's get going."

The flight from Russia to Brazil was long and boring, but uneventful. Zangief slept for much of the trip, as was his custom. A fighter always needed plenty of sleep, and it was prudent to get it when one could. When the private plane landed, the first thing to grab the Russian's attention was the steamy, tropical climate. After the chilly air of Russia, the change was remarkable.

"This place is hot," said Zangief as he walked across the tarmac.

"Imagine that," said Dimitri, "the jungle being hot." He pushed an oversized pair of sunglasses onto his face.

"You look ridiculous," said Zangief.

"Maybe, but I feel good," replied Dimitri with a smile. The Russians spotted Klein stock at the edge of the runway, standing in front of two rugged Toyota Land Rovers. The Russian team packed their gear into the vehicles, and then climbed aboard. Kleinstock greeted his charges warmly, then got behind the wheel of the lead truck. Zangief and Dimitri piled in with the agent. The remaining trainers went with the rear vehicle.

"I have heard much about the famous Brazilian beaches," said Zangief. "Perhaps I can find time to break away and visit one of them."

Kleinstock laughed. "I am sorry, my friend," he said, "but we are going nowhere near the beach on this ride. We are going deep into the jungle." Zangief sat back and frowned in disappointment.

Nearly three hours later, the Land Rovers pulled to a stop outside of a sprawling ranch house. The huge dwelling was made in the classic style, complete with a courtyard and a stone wall around the perimeter.

"This is where you will be staying until the fight," said Kleinstock. "As usual, all of your training and living needs have been provided." He watched as the Russians unloaded all of their gear. "I will return in a few days to take you to the battleground." Kleinstock reached under the seat, and handed Dimitri a video tape. "This is your next opponent," he said. "Good luck."

The Russians watched Kleinstock drive away from the house. "Ah, well," sighed Dimitri. "Come along, Zangief. We have work to do." They combed the ranch house looking for a VCR, finally finding one in a second floor bedroom. "Now, let us see," said Dimitri as he popped the tape into the machine, "who will be the next to fall before the mighty Zangief, hero of Russia." The big wrestler gave a half-hearted swipe at the old man's head, and then the pair settled in to watch the tape.

The name 'Blanka' flashed on the screen. The view faded in to focus on a very strange looking man pacing back and forth in a makeshift ring. He was hunched over, and his limbs seemed out of proportion, with extra long arms, and stubby legs. The warrior had a mane of hair which was almost orange in color. It matched the large patch on his chest. The man's skin was nearly an olive tone. Blanka snarled at his opponent across the ring, and displayed a wicked set of filed and sharpened teeth.

Zangief was shocked at his foe's appearance. "He looks more animal than man," he exclaimed.

"He is but a man," replied Dimitri. "Although I will admit an odd looking one."

The Russians watched the rest of the video in silence, except for a grunt from Dimitri when Blanka performed a cannonball move into his adversary's chest. The end of the tape showed Blanka giving a loud victory roar while standing over a broken and bloody fighter.

"Well," asked Dimitri. "What did you see?"

"He is savage and unpredictable," answered Zangief. "He fights with no discipline, but his ferocity covers up that particular weakness."

"What else?"

"His upper body is incredibly strong, but he rarely uses his lower body at all. That is something we can exploit."

"I thought much the same," said Dimitri. "I was hoping he would use of those Brazilian martial arts where they waste too much energy jumping around, but his style is no style at all. This worries me. It will be difficult to prepare for him."

Zangief spent the next few days in rigorous training. The basement of the ranch house had been converted into a gymnasium, and the Russian spent most of his time there, or studying Blanka's videotape. Time passed slowly, and it was a relief when Kleinstock rolled to a stop in front of the house early one morning. He hopped out of the Land Rover, and strolled to the front door of the house. He knocked politely, and waited for someone to answer. Kleinstock was not at all surprised to see Dimitri's wizened face appear before him.

"Ah, Kleinstock. Welcome. Today will be the day then, yes?"

"It is Dimitri," replied the agent. He glanced at his watch. "We must hurry," he said. "We have a long way to go."

A half hour later, the Russian team was loaded into the Land Rovers, and leaving the ranch house behind. The vehicles dove deeper into the verdant jungle. An hour later, the Russians were still going, although the road had deteriorated into twin dirt tracks. Branches kept threatening to slap Zangief in the face, which annoyed the big man, but it was better than closing up the Land Rover and suffering even more from the tropical heat.

"How much further Kleinstock?" asked Zangief. "There is nothing but jungle out here."

"We have about another hour," said Kleinstock. "Blanka lives in a very isolated area." Zangief lapsed into a resigned silence.

Eventually, the Russians drove into a small clearing with a village. Fragile looking huts dotted the vicinity, and a river ran on the far side. Small fishing boats were lined up along the shore, while natives in a motley collection of dress, had gathered in surprising numbers throughout the village, eagerly awaiting the coming battle.

Kleinstock led the Russians into the village, and toward one particular hut. He gestured toward Zangief. "You have a few minutes to prepare for the fight, Zangief," he said. "I'll come for you when it is time." The massive wrestler just nodded his head and entered the primitive dwelling. Zangief changed clothes, and went through his stretching routine before Kleinstock came back for him. "It is time," said the agent.

Zangief threw back the flimsy curtain and bulled his way outside. He was greeted by a throng of people, many more than the village could hold. The Russian moved past them, ignoring the sour looks and the soft curses. As he moved closer to the ring drawn in the center of the village, Zangief noticed a contingent of men dressed in suits along one side. It was strange , but he pushed it away from his mind. He had other things to worry about. Zangief spotted Dimitri and the other Russians on the far side of the ring. He went to them, his face a stone mask, and waited for his adversary to appear.

Blanka came forward moments later. He stomped out of a hut on the opposite side of the ring. The crowd sent up a great yell, answered by Blanka's battle cry. He wore nothing but a pair of shredded pants. The Brazilian entered the fighting circle, and looked hard at Zangief. The referee called both fighters to the center f the ring, where they continued to stare each other down. Zangief found Blanka's odor offensive. After some brief words from the official, both fighters returned to their corners and waited for the opening bell to sound .

At the tone, both men surged forward. Zangief hung back, not sure what Blanka would do first. The Brazilian surprised the Russian by coming straight at him, teeth bared. Zangief let him come close, then went to try a collar and elbow tie-up. Blanka dipped below the hold and smashed a fist up into the Russian's ribs. Zangief grunted with the blow, and the speed with which it was executed. The Brazilian had excellent reflexes. Zangief grabbed Blanka's arm, intending to put him in an arm bar, but as he did so, pain flashed across his forehead. In close now, Blanka bit down on Zangief's forearm, his sharpened teeth breaking the skin and finding purchase in the Russian's flesh. Zangief grit his teeth against the pain, and applied more pressure to Blanka's arm. The wrestler suddenly went blind as warm blood dripped into his eyes. Blanka's fingernails were more like claws, and he had raked them across the Russian's head, opening up a shallow wound. Zangief released Blanka, and wiped the blood off of his face. The Brazilian wild man took advantage, and hammered two fists into Zangief's midsection. Blanka snapped at his opponent's face, but Zangief pulled back and lashed out with front kick, catching Blanka in the chest, and moving him back. Zangief wiped more blood from his eyes, and was just able to dodge a swipe from Blanka. Zangief reached out and snagged a handful of odd-colored hair, and jerked Blanka forward. At the same time he brought up a knee and smashed it into Blanka's head. The Brazilian snapped backward, and Zangief saw pain and rage cross his face. Blanka roared and charged toward Zangief, who ran to meet him. The wrestler attempted to grab his opponent, but Blanka crouched low and went on by, leaving Zangief grasping at nothing but air. Blanka vaulted onto the Russian's back, his claws again drawing blood down Zangief's back. Blanka sank his teeth into the thick muscles around Zangief's neck, who tried to reach back and grab his tormentor, but Blanka clung too tightly. Afraid the wild man would go for his vulnerable neck, Zangief flung himself onto his back. His bulk crashed into Blanka, who was crushed between the Russian and the ground. Zangief rolled away and sprang to his feet, ready to resume combat. Blanka was also back on his feet, and the two began to circle each other when the bell sounded, ending the round.

Zangief went back to his corner and slumped down on a stool. Dimitri slapped him across the back of the head. "What the hell is wrong with you?" asked the old trainer.

"Nothing, just wipe the blood off of me."

Dimitri would not give up so easily. "You used to fight bears, did you not? You have been bitten and clawed before, yes?" He slapped the Russian again. "You have a brain, Zangief, use it." The trainers finished cleaning Zangief's wounds just before the bell sounded for the second round.

The two fighters again made straight for one another. Blanka immediately went on the offensive. He shot a punch at Zangief's midsection, but the Russian grabbed his wrist. Blanka at once raised his other arm for a claw strike, but Zangief nabbed that arm by the wrist also. Blanka roared, Zangief smiled and brought his heavy boot down on the Brazilian's unprotected foot. Zangief released his grip and swept Blanka's feet out from under him, but missed the follow-up stomp. The Brazilian got up, favoring his injured foot. Zangief moved in, and feinted a kick to the leg. Blanka jerked away, and caught a forearm across the side of the head. Blanka stumbled. Zangief leapt in and wrapped a huge arm around the Brazilian's throat, and began to squeeze. He dragged Blanka to the ground, and be an to apply additional pressure to the chokehold. The wild man clawed Zangief's arm, but the Russian blocked the pain, and wrenched Blanka's neck higher. He coiled his tree trunk-like legs around the Brazilian to keep him from getting any leverage to escape. Zangief cinched the submission hold in tighter and waited for Blanka to go limp.

Suddenly, he felt a tingle course across his skin. The Russian barely had time to wonder what the feeling was before he was slammed with what felt like a hard electric current. His muscles went into spasms, and Blanka was able to break the hold. Zangief was still seeing stars when Blanka's fist went deep into his gut. Before any more carnage happened, the bell sounded ending the second round.

Zangief staggered back to his corner and sat down heavily. "What was that?" asked Dimitri. "I thought you had him."

"It felt like an electric shock," said Zangief. "I don't know how he did it."

"The question is, can he do it again," said Dimitri. "Finish this quickly."

The bell rang for the final round, and both fighters, suddenly wary, circled each other again. Blanka came in low and fast, and aimed a hard punch at Zangief's crotch. The Russian blocked the move with a heavily muscled thigh, and dropped the point of his elbow on top of Blanka's head. The Brazilian backed up, shaking his head, and Zangief took him down with a shoulder tackle. His enemy momentarily stunned, Zangief grabbed a leg, and spun into the figure four leglock. Blanka screamed as immense pressure was applied to his knee joint. Lying on his back, he tried to hit Zangief, but the wrestler was out of reach. The Russian bore down on the hold with all of his strength, and was rewarded when Blanka's knee popped out of joint. The Brazilian howled in pain, as Zangief broke the hold and jumped to his feet. Circling a wounded and crippled Blanka, Zangief easily avoided the blows by his opponent, who was dragging one useless leg. Grasping Blanka by one arm and at the waist, Zangief hoisted the Brazilian into the air above his head. With a mighty shout, Zangief flung Blanka to the hard packed earth as hard as he could. Blanka rolled and tried to rise one more time, but could not manage the feat. His face slumped in the dirt as unconsciousness took him into the dark.

Zangief roared in victory, and the ringside official checked Blanka one last time before declaring Zangief the winner. The Russian team mobbed their champion, while the villagers quietly slunk away.

"Congratulations, Zangief," said a flushed and excited Kleinstock. "May I suggest we leave this place and get back to civilization?" Soon the Russian contingent was riding back toward the ranch house.

"We must celebrate, Kleinstock," said Zangief. "Surely there is someplace we can go to have some fun."

"And a decent drink," added Dimitri.

"I think I know such a place," said Kleinstock.

"Where is the next fight?" Zangief asked Kleinstock as they drove along the bumpy road.

"I don't know yet," replied the agent, "but the choices are getting narrower."


	5. Dhalsim

Zangief stared down at the bowl set before him. A look of mild disgust passed over his face, and his nose wrinkled at the aroma wafting up from the warm food inside the dish. The massive wrestler stirred the contents briefly with a spoon, then shoved the bowl away with a dissatisfied grunt.

"I cannot eat this," said Zangief.

Dimitri stopped suddenly, a spoonful of food halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered the utensil . "It is not so bad," he said. "A little spicy, perhaps."

"It is curried rice, Dimitri, with chunks of what meat that I hope is chicken. I would waste away eating this even if the portions were of a normal size, and not these tiny amounts we have been served."

The old trainer said nothing, but placed his hands around his bowl, noting that there was a six-inch gap between his fingers at both the top and bottom. He cocked one bushy eyebrow at his friend.

"We have been here for two days," continued Zangief. "The accommodations are lackluster, the training facilities are not up to standards, and the food is not fit for a yak."

"Are you finished?" asked Dimitri. "You sound like a whining schoolgirl. You will just have to adapt and overcome these less than ideal circumstances. Keep your mind on the fight."

"Fine," sighed Zangief, "but I still need more appropriate meals than this." He thumped one of his bulging pectorals. "I have to keep up my strength."

"I will speak to Kleinstock," said Dimitri.

The Russian team had been in India for the past two days, and Zangief's mood had noticeably deteriorated by the hour. He had found much to irritate him, from the hot, sticky climate, to the teeming throngs of small, brown illiterates chattering away in languages the fighter could not understand. They had been cloistered inside a walled-off estate deep in the heart of New Delhi since their arrival, but Zangief still felt the crushing weight of the city and its inhabitants. It was nothing like the cold, open spaces of Siberia. Normally, he would work off the anxiety and frustration in training, but the equipment which had been provided in the basement of the house was obsolete and nearly useless, even by Russian standards. Zangief was growing sullen, and unless checked, his anger would continue to grow until it exploded like a volcano. Dimitri had notice this, and was not entirely displeased. An angry and pissed off Zangief was very nearly unstoppable in a fight. The old Cossack just had to channel his pupil's rage until it could be unleashed at the proper moment, preferably during the next Street Fight.

Thomas Kleinstock knocked on the front door two days later. He was granted access to the house by Dimitri, who beamed a gap-toothed smile at the tournament liaison.

"Good morning, Thomas," said Dimitri, as he stepped back to allow Kleinstock to cross the threshold. "It is good to see you again."

"Likewise, Dimitri," replied Kleinstock. He shook a videotape held in his hand. "I have your next opponent here."

"Ah, good," said Dimitri. He took the tape , and slowly turned it over in his hands. "Now we will see what we are up against."

Kleinstock clasped his hands in front of his body, and looked around the Indo-Saracenic style house. "How is everything?" he asked. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"As a matter of act, my friend, Zangief would like to have a word with you," said a half-smiling Dimitri. "He is in the basement, if you have a moment."

"Of course," replied Kleinstock. "Lead the way." Dimitri took him through the house, and down a flight of stairs to the basement, which was hidden by a closed door. From outside, Kleinstock could hear the sounds of something heavy being lifted and dropped back onto the floor, which shook slightly under the impact.

Dimitri opened the door and went inside. Kleinstock followed him. The agent was treated to a surreal sight. The basement was large, but dimly lit with only a couple of bare light bulbs providing illumination. Much of the room was cast in shadow and gloom. Dust danced in the air. Near the center stood Zangief, his chest heaving, as he loomed over a metal bar laden with iron plates. His wrists were wrapped in tape, the ends of which dangled by his side. Smaller sets of rusty weights and smaller bars were scattered around the area. The big Russian bent down and picked up the weight at his feet in a smooth dead lift. The bar sagged at both ends due to the amount of metal attached to each end. Zangief completed the lift, then dropped the bar onto a thin mat which covered part of the floor.

"Zangief," called Dimitri, "our friend Kleinstock is here to see you." The massive wrestler slowly turned toward the pair. Kleinstock could feel a crazy energy pouring off of the Russian, one that sent alarm bells ringing in his head. Still, he had faced worse in his time.

Kleinstock walked across the room toward the Russian. "Dimitri says you wanted to speak to me," began the agent. Given his previous interactions with the Russians, Kleinstock was shocked by what transpired next.

Zangief surged forward, and grabbed the agent by the chest. Using only one giant hand, the Russian picked Kleinstock up off his feet, and carried him backward. He slammed Kleinstock against the nearest wall hard enough to make the man's teeth rattle, and held him there. The two were face to face, but Kleinstock's feet twitched over a foot above the ground.

Zangief just stared at him for a moment, and Kleinstock briefly wondered if the Russian were contemplating breaking his neck. The warrior leaned in close, and said in a loud, commanding rumble, "This is not acceptable."

"Put him down, Zangief," interjected Dimitri. "You have made your point." Reluctantly, the Russian lowered his captive. Kleinstock clutched his chest, sure that he was heavily bruised. Dimitri took him gently by the arm, and led him toward the door. "Come with me Kleinstock, Zangief has a list of grievances which he was kind enough to pass onto me." The pair exited the basement with Dimitri reciting a laundry list of problems to the shaken agent.

Some time later, Zangief ascended the stairs from the basement into the main house. He grabbed a towel near the door, and wiped away a layer of sweat. The wrestler roamed through the house until he located Dimitri, who was in an upstairs room, lying on a bed and smoking a foul-smelling cigar.

"Those things will kill you," said Zangief as he wedged himself through the doorway.

"I'm old," replied Dimitri. "I'll do what I want. He reached over and snuffed out the smoke. "Besides, a man can live a completely clean and moral life, and in the end, he still dies." The old man shrugged, a fatalistic gesture common amongst Russians. "Are you ready to see your next opponent?"

"I am," said Zangief. He plopped down onto the bed, causing the springs to squeal in protest. Dimiti hopped up and rolled over the familiar TV/VCR combination. He switched on the power and popped in the tape he had gotten from Kleinstock. "Dimitri, you have become a man of the world," joked Zangief.

"Shush, fool," said Dimitri, "and watch."

The name "Dhalsim" came up in shaky block lettering, then it dissolved into a scene featuring a makeshift arena. The camera focused in on one man standing just inside the ring. He was nearly engulfed by a large crowd of cheering people. The fighter did not appear to notice the commotion going on around him. Zangief could tell the man was tall and slender, but any other details were hidden by the hooded, knee-length robe he wore. It wasn't until both combatants in the match had been given their instructions by the referee in the middle of the ring that Dhalsim removed his robe. Zangief gasped in surprise.

"Look at him, Dimitri," said the gigantic wrestler. "My thigh is thicker than he is."

"Looks can be deceiving," said Dimitri. He cast an eye toward Zangief. "Although in your case, what you see is what you get."

The match began, and the Russians were astounded when Dhalsim immediately went on the offensive, and was able to strike his opponent by somehow stretching his limbs to abnormal lengths. They were even more disconcerted when late in the match, Dhalsim spit fire into the face of his adversary. The fight ended shortly after.

"More mystics," grumbled Zangief, after the tape ended.

"Yes," said Dimitri. "You will not have a reach advantage this time. Come we have work to do."

After hours of scheming and training in the basement, the Russians returned upstairs. Waiting for them were boxes of sausage meat and cheese, dark bread and crates of fresh vegetables. "Looks like your talk with Kleinstock went over quite well," commented Dimitri wryly.

The next few days brought about much change in the Russian training house. Zangief was amazed. Every time he came up from training in the basement, studying the tape of Dhalsim, or woke up from sleeping, new boxes and crates were stacked in rooms or hallways. The contents varies from food to traing equipment to creature comforts, although Dimitri kept most of those packed and closed up, saying they would impede Zangief's training.

Almost a week after his last appearance, Kleinstock once again darkened the door. Dimitri met him, and noted without commenting, that Kleinstock looked nervous and somewhat flustered. "Come in my friend," said Dimitri. "How are you on this fine day?"

"Very well, thank you," replied Kleinstock as he fidgeted with his tie. "I trust conditions have improved since my last visit?"

"Oh yes," said Dimitri. "We are well pleased with what you have been able to send us. Zangief has actually smiled. Twice."

"Good. Excellent. I'm happy to hear that," said Kleinstock. "This isn't a social call, Dimitri. The fight is set for tomorrow."

"I shall inform Zangief at once. He is very anxious to meet this Dhalsim."

"Alright," said Kleinstock. "I will have you picked up hear at four o'clock." The agent turned on his heel and walked to a waiting car outside the estate gates.

The next day, Zangief was as placid as an undisturbed pond surface. He didn't say more than a handful of words as morning wore into afternoon. When the time came to leave, Zangief picked up his bag filled with a change of clothes and assorted trinkets and necessities, and calmly walked out to the vehicles waiting to whisk the Russians away to the predestined site of the fight.

The small caravan pulled up to a ramshackle, abandoned colonial-era palace. It must have been something back in its day, thought Zangief as he eyed the massive structure from the car window. The Russians piled out and began to gather before the building. Kleinstock suddenly appeared and broke into a jog to reach the Russian delegation.

"I'm glad you guys are here," said the slightly out of breath liaison. "Follow me." He led them through a field of thigh-high grass to the front door of the palace. The Russians had to pick their way around chunks of stone and masonry which had once been a part of the structure before them.

Once everyone was inside, Kleinstock led the team through a series of dark hallways until they reached one particular empty room. The agent ushered the Russians inside. "It will be only a few minutes until the fight," he said. "Prepare yourselves."

Already dressed in wrestling trunks and boots, Zangief began a series of stretches, slowly loosening his muscles for the coming match. The other team members scrambled to get the necessary equipment ready for use, if needed. Dimitri stared at one of the blank walls, and silently worried an old Red Army medal, a thing from his distant past, with gnarled fingers.

Kleinstock returned in ten minutes. "It's time," he said. The Russians followed him through another series of darkened halls, but this time they could hear the sounds of a gathered and raucous crowd. At last the team burst into an open air courtyard which must have been the center of the estate. Sunlight streamed down, bathing the temporary fighting arena in light. A pulsating crowd of Indians were packed around the sides of the courtyard, stacked so that some were illuminated, and some were cast into shadow.

Near the edge of the chalk line which marked the limits of the ring sat a man in a hooded robe. He was sitting , his body locked in an uncomfortable looking yoga position. Dhalsim's fingers rubbed together absently, but underneath the hood, his gaze burned into Zangief.

For his part, Zangief shouldered his way to the ring, being none too gentle with the bystanders in his path. He reached the arena, where it seemed to him that Dhalsim floated to a standing position. The referee motioned both fighters to the center of the ring to give them a brief set of instructions. Zangief could not see into the depths of his opponent's hood, largely because Dhalsim would not look up to meet his stare. The Russian, never needing much motivation for a fight took it is a sign of disrespect and weakness.

Both warriors returned to their respective corners. Dhalsim finally removed his robe, revealing a shaven, painted skull, other bits of artwork on various parts of his body, and a necklace made of small, bleached skulls. Zangief marveled at the outfit, then thought it a shame he would have to ruin it with blood and blows.

From somewhere, a bell rang. Zangief moved forward, but was wary of Dhalsim's unnatural reach. The two fighters circled one another looking for an opening. Suddenly, Dhalsim bent at the waist, and sent two fists hard into Zangief's thigh. The Russian jumped back in surprise. He had been hit harder, but never from that range. Dhalsim pressed his advantage, and kicked Zangief in the face from seven feet away. The blow snapped the wrestler's head back, but he retained enough awareness o block the next long distance kick. Dhalsim countered by dropping low and punched Zangief in the thigh again.

The Russian knew perfectly well what his opponents strategy was for this fight. He would attempt to pummel Zangief from long range, with repeated attacks to the head and legs. Once he was disoriented or unable to move naturally, Dhalsim would move in close to finish him off with shorter, but more powerful combinations. Zangief knew his timing would have to be perfect in order o defeat Dhalsim. Of course, knowing it and being able to do something about it were two entirely different things.

Zangief leapt over another strike aimed at his thigh, but caught a follow up foot across the jaw for his trouble. He was never a very patient fighter, wanting to close and crush as soon as possible, and Dhalsim's fighting style was already beginning to frustrate him. The Russian spat out a glob of blood and snarled. Dhalsim saw the reaction and a small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Zangief blocked another high kick aimed at his head. To the crowd, it appeared like he was getting beaten, which made them yell and scream all the louder, but as always Zangief and Dimitri had devised a battle plan. This one entailed Zangief getting popped a few times early in the match, betting that Dhalsim did not have the power to knock him out from afar. Taking the hits, and either blocking or dodging them would give Zangief an accurate gauge on the speed and range of Dhalsim's attacks. All that remained after that was closing with his long-limbed opponent and beating him into submission.

Dhalsim tried again to kick Zangief in the head, but this time the Russian was ready. He quickly ducked the blow and then grabbed Dhalsim's exposed ankle with one huge hand. The wrestler wrenched the captive leg, then drove a hard knife-edge chop across the shin and into the calf muscle. Dhalsim punched Zangief in the ribs, but he was off balance, and the Russian just shrugged it off. Still holding Dhalsim by the ankle, despite a vigorous attempt by the yoga master to dislodge himself, Zangief jumped up and stretched himself out. As he fell toward the ground, he drove the point of his elbow into Dhalsim's knee. The leg was trapped between the weight and momentum of Zangief's massive form and the unforgiving floor of the arena. When the three met, Dhalsim screamed in pain.

Zangief rolled to his feet. Dhalsim also regained his footing, but he dragged his injured leg behind him. The Russian closed in, confident that he had put a stop to Dhalsim's trickery. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his injured opponent draw himself up and take a deep breath. Zangief glimpsed a flicker of flame in Dhalsim's eyes, and immediately threw himself to the floor. A gout of fire passed over him, one spewed from Dhalsim's mouth. The heat scorched the skin across Zangief's bare back. The moment the fire died, the wrestler pushed himself up, and launched a shoulder into Dhalsim's midsection, blasting the Indian in the sternum. The impact spun Dhalsim to the ground. Zangief hopped up and reached down to grab his opponent by the neck, but the yoga master floated away from the grip of the Russian. Zangief froze in amazement as Dhalsim attained a height of about eight feet, then spun and dove toward him headfirst. Dhalsim's skull smacked the Russian square in the chest, and staggered the big man. Two head butts to the chest and ribs followed, along with a hard chop to the chin. Zangief was stunned by the combo. He kicked out instinctively. Dhalsim evaded the clumsy attack, but it gave Zangief some space to clear his head.

Dhalsim pressed his advantage. He moved in from the side and attempted to grab Zangief by one arm for some type of shoulder throw. The Russian, who had seen thousands of holds, locks and throws in his fighting career, planted his feet, lowered his center of gravity, and leaned back, which denied Dhalsim the leverage he needed to complete the move. Zangief punched Dhalsim in the face with his free hand, breaking the hold, and quickly followed with a leg sweep that sent the Indian crashing to the ground.

Before either fighter could gather himself, and rejoin hostilities, the bell rang ending the first round. Zangief stumped back to his corner, the frustration on his face as easy to read as an open book.

"Are you injured?" asked Dimitri.

"No."

"Do you realize that he nearly tossed you?"

"I realize that he tried," replied Zangief through gritted teeth.

"I see," said Dimitri. "How about that he out-pointed you during that round?" He may as well have told Zangief that water was wet for all the response his barb elicited. The wrestler only shrugged. "He will come for your legs again."

"I have taken his best shots," said Zangief. "He has not taken mine."

The bell rang, which signified a return to combat. Zangief surged forward, eager to grapple quickly with Dhalsim and finish the match. The Indian had no wish to oblige him, however. Dhalsim slid forward, feet first, toward Zangief's knees. Anticipating an attack toward his lower body, Zangief jumped to the side and lashed out with a boot, connecting with Dhalsim's head. Finding his adversary temporarily prone, Zangief went to ground and locked in an armbar submission move. He applied incredible pressure on Dhalsim's arm, figuring the Indian would either tap out or suffer a broken arm. To his utter astonishment, Dhalsim began to contort his body and his arm started to slip from Zangief's iron grip. The Russian rolled slightly and jammed the tip of his elbow into Dhalsim's temple. The attack stunned the yoga master, giving Zangief the opportunity to roll over into a full mount position with his knees straddling Dhalsim's chest. From this position of dominance, the Russian rained hard, massive blows down onto Dhalsim's head. The Indian was able to partially block the first hits, but the very weight and speed of Zangief's attacks pounded through the feeble defense. Soon, the wrestlers' knuckles were red with blood, and Dhalsim lay unmoving on the floor. The referee jumped in and grabbed Zangief's tree-like arm before he could deliver another devastating hit, while at the same time calling for the bell to ring.

Zangief stood, and looked at Dhalsim's blood drip from his clenched fists, then let loose an ear-splitting victory roar. The referee pushed him back toward his corner where he was mobbed by the Russian team. The arena was stone quiet as the crowd silently filed out. A medical team rushed in to attend to Dhalsim, who had yet to move. Grinning, and flush with triumph, Zangief looked around and noticed a very tall, bald, broad man with an eye patch leaving the courtyard. Before he could draw anyone's attention to the matter, Kleinstock suddenly appeared and hustled the Russians off to a secluded part of the palace. The big stranger was soon forgotten as Zangief reveled in his win.

Later, back at the Russian quarters, Kleinstock reappeared with a case of champagne. "I have good news," he said to Zangief. "You have earned another home bout. The next fight will be in Russia."

"You hear that, Dimitri?" crowed Zangief. "We are going home!" He took a long swig of champagne, then draped his arm over Kleinstock's shoulder. "My friend," he said to the agent, "I am sorry for treating you so roughly the other day. I should not have done such a thing. You have been a good friend to us, and it was not right."

"You are apologizing to me?" asked a incredulous Kleinstock.

"I am. When a man does something wrong, he should stand up and admit as much. It will not happen again."

"Thank you, Zangief," stammered Kleinstock. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," said Zangief. "Drink instead!" The party continued late into the night. When the new day dawned, it would be time to get to work preparing for the next round of the tournament.


End file.
